


To taste the same thing in the same moment

by TuskFM



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Poetic, at least an attempt at something poetic and evocative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuskFM/pseuds/TuskFM
Summary: We plant trees.I do not know when it started, but we buy a fruit at the market, and I get a second one for you when you’ll be hungry. We buy it, and we find a place for it. We dig into the ground, lay it in its hold and then cover it with dirt again.We stay long enough to see it reach light, to see the first green leaf.~Or: the tangerine
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	To taste the same thing in the same moment

**Author's Note:**

> Born out of a melancholic heart at 1am.
> 
> First try at something more evocation than narrative.

We plant trees.

I do not know when it started, but we buy a fruit at the market, and I get a second one for you when you’ll be hungry. We buy it, and we find a place for it. We dig into the ground, lay it in its hold and then cover it with dirt again.

We stay long enough to see it reach light, to see the first green leaf. And then we leave, we tell the village and the children that there’s a new life that needs to be taken care of, that it is precious, just like theirs. We announce the newborn and leave the town.

We leave the town to another horizon, another city, another village, another fight that needs us, another war that calls for our help. And so we fight, we die and we stand up again. I wash the blood off your hands, you comb my hair. We kiss by the fire, pray together and do it all again the next morning.

We meet death, by ourselves, from others' will. We meet her, leaving earth along other souls, but we never cross over the edge with them. We come back, alone. We wake up to each other. We hold hands, wash blood and kiss again.

You grow tired, we all do. And so we travel to the next town. There’s a fig tree that has seen many generations pass away. One elder tells us about the two strangers who planted that tree, a century ago. We smile, seeing the fruits of our work. We pass through the city, taking a fig with us. (I have another in my bag, for you.)

We plant it in the next village, telling them it has a sister a few miles north, and that they will care for this one, like one of their own.

We find our sisters, our sister, her and our brother. Hers, again.

You put your hand on my cheek, tell me I look tired. I tell you you sound tired. Your laughter has lost its brightness. I do not know how to mend it back. We leave, leave the fights behind, leave the pain behind.

We find ourselves back to shores, back on our first home. The tree has grown. It is not alone now, and it is healthy. Big, and strong. We lay in its shade; you draw me while I read a book. You instruct me to repeat some passages, claiming you did not hear well. I do so, knowing it is because you want to commit the scene to your memory in its fullest.

And when it gets too hot to draw or to read, I pick a tangerine off the nearest branch. It is round and full, bursting when I rip the skin. I peel it, carefully, gently. You smile when I offer you one quarter, and you stole the sun again, blinding me with your love. We share the fruit, hands sticky with juice and mouths full of laughter.

We pocket one (and another) with us as we leave, going back to our family. This one we will see it grow.

Yes, we plant trees.


End file.
